Prodigal Son (Orphan X #6) - Gregg Andrew Hurwitz Page 0,71
‘n’ D expenditure. This many lost assets make clear that someone’s helping Duran.”
“Who?”
“I’m looking into it. This elevates the priority level, the urgency. I need you to produce results.”
“We’re almost ready to move on the second target.”
“No,” the doctor said. “Duran first. He actually saw it.”
Queenie flipped the visor back up, dropped the car into gear, and crept out from the curb. We’re doing everything we can.
“We’re doing everything we can,” Declan said. “Right now we’re staking out—”
“Maybe you have a different understanding of what ‘results’ means,” the doctor said, calm as ever. “Do you need me to acquaint you with my definition of the word?”
Declan clenched his teeth, his neck cording, and let the silent scream vibrate his whole head.
Queenie reached over, stroked his thigh. No. No, sir.
Declan exhaled until he felt the purple leave his face. “No. No, sir.”
“I have teams watching the ex’s place and the child’s school. They’ve been alerted to the escalation. If he rears his head, they’ll take it clean off. In the meantime you’d better figure out another approach. Friends, co-workers, distant family.”
“We’ve looked at everyone and everything,” Declan said.
Queenie banked hard onto the freeway ramp and opened up the 650 horses. Don’t argue with him. He wants blood. We need to give it to him.
Declan looked at her. We already took that one guy apart top to bottom.
Then we’ll take another apart. And send pictures.
That won’t get us anywhere.
You’re being too literal. It’s not about getting somewhere right now. It’s about satisfying the doctor.
The doctor had said nothing. Not a pleasant silence.
Declan said, “We have another person we can talk to.”
“Good,” the doctor said. “Because you won’t like it if I run out of patience.”
He hung up.
A few minutes later, Queenie exited the freeway and crawled through a dark neighborhood. Prefab houses set imprecisely down on plots of dead weed. Flaking paint. Rusted mailboxes. Disgust curdled in Declan’s chest. As hideous as their childhood had been, Mom had always made sure the house was a place of pride. Spit-shined counters. Beds made with boot-camp precision. Kitchen floor you could eat off.
These people lived like animals.
Queenie coasted up on a double-wide positioned crookedly at the far edge of a dirt lot. Vinyl siding splayed up at intervals, exposing rotting wood-chip board sheathing beneath. A decrepit BMW at the curb.
As Declan climbed out, Queenie popped the trunk. He slid off his Brioni jacket, gave it a dead-man’s fold to avoid wrinkles, and laid it precisely across the leather backseats. The trunk held his fine-leather kit. He’d sterilized the tools and the nails since their last use. It was a matter of professionalism.
A surgeon had to keep his implements pristine.
Queenie had her personal phone out, the iPhone case studded with crusted faux rubies. Its camera had an array of filters and HDR that really brought a tableau to life.
She handed it off. “I’ll wait out here. Whistle if you need me.”
“You know we won’t get any answers.” His voice came high and wheezy, irritating even to his own ears.
“I know, baby brother. But sometime you just gotta feed the beast.”
Declan took the phone and crossed the dirt lot, cautious not to scuff his Ferragamos. He removed his cuff links and rolled his sleeves above the forearms.
The front door was open to vent the heat of the stovetop—something reheated and preservative-intensive. A TV murmured calmingly inside, a game show with lots of applause: I’ll take Science for two hundred, Alex. The screen yawned open with the groan of a rusty coil.
The man sat on a ripped La-Z-Boy facing away, watching Jeopardy!, the volume too loud.
Toolkit in hand, Declan glided through the narrow galley kitchen into the living room. The threadbare carpet silenced his loafers as he approached. He paused right behind the man’s chair, watching the TV over the back of his head.
The scent of Old Spice was strong here, overpowering the kitchen smells. The man stayed fixated on the screen, oblivious. Declan rubbed the catch of the leather kit with his thumb, closing his eyes into that bloodred glow, letting the other part of himself take charge.
The game-show host wore a two-button herringbone Ted Baker. He rested an elbow on his podium. “There are two hundred and six of these in the adult human body.”
“Wait, I know this one,” Declan said, and Juan just about fell out of his chair. Declan flicked the catch, the weight of the implements causing the leather kit to unfurl with a snap.
Now his words came forth low-pitched and sonorous.